Letters to the Moon

Luna…

There are evenings when I feel the world pulling me in a thousand different directions, each one tugging with its own small demand. But tonight, I’ve carved out a quiet pocket of time—stolen, really—to return to you. To your sky. To your steady glow. To the soft conversations we share without ever speaking aloud.

Forgive my absence, wandering one… guardian of shadows and light, silent queen of the star-stitched dome overhead. You’ve been watching long before I ever learned to lift my gaze. You’ve seen beginnings and endings, rise and ruin, love that ignited entire lifetimes and pain that nearly extinguished them. You carry centuries inside you as though they weigh nothing at all.

Every night, I look up at your calm and wonder:
What have you witnessed? What have you mourned? What have you loved enough to keep circling the earth for?

Your presence feels ancient, almost tender. As if in your craters, in the dust of your glowing skin, history sleeps like a memory too precious to disturb. A silent archive drifting through a sky too vast for human understanding.

And yet… somehow you still make time for small souls like mine.


So let me begin here—with gratitude.

Thank you for the clarity that has slowly taken root in my mind these past nights. I never imagined wisdom could arrive in the shape of moonlight, but here we are. Your glow has illuminated more than clouds and coastlines; it has brightened corners of me I thought would remain dim forever.

You’ve opened doors I didn’t know existed.

You’ve helped me understand the still places inside me—the ones that hold doubt like deep, unmoving pools. I see now how long I’ve lingered in those waters, how often I’ve mistaken stagnancy for safety. But each night I sit with you teaches me something new: the world continues to turn, and I must learn to turn with it.

There is more waiting for me. More life. More becoming.
I know that now.

And I know I didn’t meet your magic by chance. Whatever thread pulled us into the same quiet moment, whatever unseen hand tied a small part of my life to your light, I won’t question it. I don’t need to understand the blessing to feel it. I only need to listen—something I’m finally learning to do.


I’ve been thinking about what you made me realize last time: how impossible it is to embrace an answer when I don’t yet understand my own question. I suppose that’s the ache of being human—carrying uncertainty like a lantern that flickers more than it glows. In a world where faith feels fragile, questions are often the only thing we have left to hold.

And I am full of them. Overflowing, even.

But I’m learning that confusion isn’t a flaw. It’s an invitation.

I know I have work to do. I know growth is not a gift but a willingness. I know your guidance—whatever form it takes—will not accompany me forever. Still, part of me prays that it does… that this strange connection between us keeps stretching across the horizon like a whispered promise.


Tonight, I write from the shore, carving these thoughts into the damp sand while your glow slowly climbs over the edge of the world. The ocean waits nearby, breathing slow, listening. Soon the tide will come for my words, pulling them back into its own dark body. And I will let it. Maybe that’s how our conversations have always worked—me speaking, you listening, the sea carrying the message between us.

Winter is coming. I can already feel its breath in the wind. Soon this beach will freeze, and snow will cover the places where my hands once pressed into the earth. But even when the world is white and barren, I’ll keep talking to you. I’ll let my whispers rise into the night like small, warm sparks against the cold.

Keep listening for them.

Because one day—maybe not soon, but someday—I hope to rise into a version of myself that meets your light without fear. A version that stands taller than the shadows I’ve lived beside. A version that finally understands why we were ever tethered at all.

Until then, keep watch.